The bleachers freeze my butt as the football

team takes the field. Second year of college and this is only my third game.

The wind stings my ears, drowning out my friends’ voices.

It whispers my name.

It carries the music from my high school

marching band.

The drumline playing Hot and Spicy.

My fingers ache for my flute. I need to play.

I need pull on a uniform, stuff a plume into my hat.

I need to take the field again,

to perform.

The wind stings my eyes.

It carries my college fight song, carries memories of band trips.

Your arms block me from the wind. “You’re making new memories.”

But these things run in my veins.

These things I can’t forget.

Poetry

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